whore. I can survive by turning to my friends and asking for help. But I want more. If she insists on leaving and there is no other option, I suppose I must find a way to go to her.
The next morning she found that she was able to write for the first time since the American woman?s departure. ~~~~~~ I was looking for a new taste. My exile was a hunger for home, and I waited to be fed.
How I hated the sugar cane, its sweetness a conjure trick of evil fairies that cast the finished white powder like spirit dust ? all ground up bones and flesh and hair, the raw material for their candy magic. As it grows it is not like the other delights of my field. Its green spears stab at the back of my throat. Its fibers pose scratchy barriers to my teeth and lips. It is a refusal of welcome ? so unlike the open doors of mangos and guanabanas. Its roots soak in the blood of my fathers. Its roots suck in the milk of my mothers. I cry out as we are poured into the coffee cups of the Spaniards, of the Yankees, of the Soviets. The bitter liquid peels back our skins, leaving us as human bagasse.
I was looking for a new taste. My exile was a hunger for home, and I waited to be fed.
When I was thirteen my womb awoke and I wished for the power of creation, but what I witnessed was the birth of A New World Order which is the spawn of The Old World Order. I saw cane which is Middle Passage saw cane which is arms saw cane which is sweatshops saw cane which is drugs saw drugs which is MTV saw MTV which is Coca Cola saw Coca Cola which is cane. I tried to burn down the stands, choking the innocent birds in the acrid smoke, and still the stalks grew back. Tilling the earth with my bare hands, I tried to plant yams and the roots could not hold as the alien crop stood firm, denying me the fruits of my labor. I released insects I released storms I released anger and the mocking shafts regenerated, the growth rising up to block the light of the sun.
I was looking for a new taste. My exile was a hunger for home, and I waited to be fed.
And what fire and machetes and rebellion could not accomplish, you did. You come, a fugitive princess yellow-jacket traveling lightly between the blossoms of tenderness and the flowers of inspiration, and make out of these abstract graces the tangible morsels that at last sate me: a honey so pure and delicate that upon my tongue I know the flavor of freedom the texture of belonging the sweetness of my home in your arms where you serve the finest love for my meals. ~~~~~~
To be continued.
Feedback to ortizbriggs@aol.com. I am hopeless. Yes, I lost a bunch of mail before I could answer. I am such a ditz. I did read it all, though.
Translation of ?Noche de Ronda? (?Prowling Night?) by Agustín Lara: Prowling night/ how sadly you pass/ how sadly you cross/ across my balcony./Prowling night/ how you wound me/ how you hurt/my heart./ You moon, who breaks/over the shadow of my loneliness/ where are you headed?/Tell me if this night/you are going prowling/ as she has gone/ Who are you with?/ Tell her that I love her/ Tell her that I am dying/ from waiting so long/ to come back already/ because prowling isn?t good/ it causes damage and brings suffering/ and it ends in tears.
